The next morning, Andrea didn't tell Isabella where he was going.
Not because he wanted to lie—but because some truths were easier to carry alone.
He found them near the back of the old market, where the streets narrowed and the city pretended not to see what happened after dusk. Big men leaned against walls like they had grown there. Bigger boys—barely older than Andrea—laughed too loudly, moved too confidently.
They noticed him immediately.
"You lost, kid?" one of them asked.
Andrea shook his head. "I'm looking for work."
That earned a few chuckles.
"Schoolboy wants work," another said. "Cute."
Andrea swallowed. "I can run errands. Carry things. Deliver messages."
A man with a thick neck and bored eyes studied him for a long moment.
"How old?"
"Sixteen."
The man clicked his tongue. "Too young."
Andrea's shoulders fell.
"But hungry," the man added. "That we can use."
The jobs were small.
Deliver a package across three streets.
Stand watch for ten minutes.
Carry a bag, don't look inside.
No questions. No delays.
The pay was folded bills pressed into his palm like secrets.
Not much.
But when Andrea held the money, it felt heavier than coins ever had.
The first time, his hands shook.
By the third day, they didn't.
That frightened him more than the men did.
He learned quickly.
Where to walk.
When to keep his eyes down.
Who not to talk to.
The big boys teased him at first.
"Pastry prince," one sneered. "What happened to school?"
Andrea didn't answer.
By the end of the week, they stopped teasing.
He was reliable.
Reliability mattered more than pride.
That night, Andrea placed the money on the kitchen table.
Isabella stared at it. "Where did this come from?"
Andrea shrugged. "Work."
"What kind of work?"
"Errands."
Her eyes searched his face, sharp with worry. "For who?"
"People," he said quickly. "It's nothing bad. Just carrying things."
Lucia said nothing.
She just reached out and held Andrea's hand, her thumb brushing over a fresh scrape on his knuckle.
"You're too young for this," she whispered.
Andrea looked away. "We don't have a choice."
Silence filled the room.
Marcello coughed weakly from the bedroom.
Andrea clenched his jaw.
Later, alone in his room, Andrea counted the money again.
It wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
But it meant bread tomorrow. Medicine. Rent paid one more week.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"I'll stop when things get better," he told himself.
Outside, footsteps echoed down the stairwell.
In the city, men noticed boys who didn't complain.
And boys who didn't complain were easy to keep.
Andrea fell asleep with the money under his pillow—
And the quiet understanding that he had stepped into a world that did not let go easily.